Hiraeth
by SheerSaxifrage
Summary: "He remembered the Ice Tribe as home. For too many others, it was blight upon the earth." (Prelude to "Hero of One". Warnings for xenophobia.)


**Hiraeth**

There was a large gulf between what he knew about the Ice Tribe, and what he actually remembered about it.

For example: he knew, factually, that the Ice Tribe was known for its notoriously high altitude winds, often strong enough to knock a grown man over. He'd seen this happen to his pops plenty of times, but he was naturally unlucky so that wasn't so special. For Percy, the winds had never been a problem. He knew the people who felt that way were all guilty of one common mistake: instead of riding the wind, they tried to fight it.

* * *

All the books Krakenburg had on the Ice Tribe were written by mainstream Nohrians, handwriting loopy from years of using the standard Nohrian script. The handwriting of a typical Ice Tribesman was totally different, lines sharp and angular from the runic letters they used.

These books tried to tell him that their alphabet was outdated, that their written word promoted a classical syntax that was largely out of step with the vernacular language. _This practice has attributed to the Ice Tribe's cultural stagnation,_ said one book's introduction. _Theirs is a worldview shaped by a writing system five hundred years in the past._

He couldn't say why the Ice Tribe still used runes, exactly; but he knew if he could change it, he wouldn't. If any of the so-called 'Ice Tribe experts' learned how to actually _read_ runes, they would swiftly discover just how eloquent their writing was. They had their _own_ books. Grandpa Kilma had stacks of them; the biggest building in Ice Tribe was their communal library. Back when things were still good, he and Dwyer would compete to see who could climb up the shelves fastest. Dwyer usually won, but that was okay. The top was where all the best books were, and he would always bring an armful back down with him. They would read about the history of their tribe for hours.

* * *

One of the first things he learned about himself was that he was fourth in line to the chief's chair. Aunt Flora, Felicia, and Dwyer all stood in the way of that, hands protecting him from that massive responsibility. Back then he was sure if he ever sat down on that chair he'd immediately burst into flames, because the only way he ever could was if they all died first. How could he ever live without Aunt Flora teaching him about constellations, or running through the snow with Dwyer, or his mom hugging him when he was sad?

Even then, he knew plenty of people who lived without the ones they loved. Grandpa Kilma lived without Grandma, who died long before Percy was born. His pops lived without King Garon, who he described as the most honorable and just man he'd ever known. But that was them, they were strong like that. Percy knew he couldn't.

* * *

There was a common misconception that the people of the Ice Tribe could not marry anyone from the outside. He knew some tribes—specifically, the Flame Tribe—actively discouraged anyone from marrying out, but not them. At sixteen years old his mom climbed down the Ice Mountain, walked past town, away from the best villages, through the average villages, and into a village so isolated that its low crime rate could only be attributed to the actions of one man. Arthur was unlucky, but strong enough to scare every bad guy away from his village forever. That's where her love for him sparked, and since then it grew to fill the length between the Ice Tribe and that lonely village several times over.

And everyone in the tribe loved his pops, especially compared to his Uncle Jakob. His pops was allowed to sit in on their meetings; he accompanied Aunt Flora on her diplomatic missions; Grandpa Kilma sought out and considered his advice on tribal matters. As far as Percy was concerned, _this_ was the difference between Ice and Flame: his tribe averted the death of their culture by assimilating others into their way of life, while _they_ were so afraid of the outside world that theirs was a band of inbred barbarians.

* * *

When he was younger he'd sometimes read about the Nohrians, too.

Even the books aimed at children were complex. The pictures barely helped. From what he could understand there was the royal family, who carried the blood of the Dusk Dragon. Then there were the noble families, who were closest to the crown. After that came the different flavors of working class, the merchants and the artisans and the witch doctors and the mercenaries. Next were the peasants, mostly farmers and other manual laborers. Below them were the street urchins, who mostly occupied the lowest circle of the Underground. And at the very bottom were the slaves, who were owned mostly by royal family and the highest noble houses.

To Percy it was a convoluted circle. In comparison, the Ice Tribe was a simple straight line. Everyone listened to Grandpa Kilma, but besides him everyone was the same. Dads would go out and hunt. Moms would take the carcasses they brought home and turn them into food and clothes for the family. Kids would go to the main hall for school, and then they'd go home to do chores or help their parents out with their businesses. And at night, everyone gathered in the center of town to send their prayers to the moon.

Simple, ordinary. He didn't know how the Nohrians did it, living in such a big strange world.

* * *

On clear nights, he and his mom would go outside just to watch the moon together. She'd sit against the slope of the mountain and he'd sit on her lap, head on her chest, facing the sky. She'd tell him, _y_ _ou're going to face a lot of changes in your life, but the moon is forever. Even when she goes away she'll always come back, because she loves you._

That gave Percy his first idea of 'love'. _Love is returning. Love is making your way back, even when it's hard._

* * *

At night, when everyone was asleep and the Wolfskins could be heard howling in the distance, Percy would slip out of bed, past his sleeping parents, and out the front door. The sky—eternally dark and ever so lonely—would greet him in the same way someone would welcome an old friend. He'd ride the wind to their town square, where he would collapse backwards onto the ground in a flurry of freshly fallen snow. On some nights he'd be sprinkled gently by it, as a mother might shower her newborn with kisses. On other nights it was a mindless attacker, the violence it brought upon his body so brutal that it seeped past the barrier of his skin, finding a home in his bone marrow. He should have died of frostbite; instead, he lived to spread the cold.

* * *

There was a large gulf between what he remembered about the Ice Tribe, and what he actually knew. He remembered it as home. For too many others, it was blight upon the earth.


End file.
